On the face of it, it would appear that she has not received the message. But subsequently she proves, by writing to her father, that she is aware of his safe arrival, which is the news contained in his message. Furthermore, she addresses her letter from Redwithy, as though she desires him to communicate with her at that place. All these facts are so definite that the reasonable conclusion is that Vita has wilfully endeavored to hide herself from him--Ruxton. That, he told himself, was the cold logic of it. Then, even as he arrived at the conclusion, a hot passion of denial leapt. It was wrong, wrong. He could stake his soul on it it was wrong. Logic? Argument? Reason? They were all fallible; fallible as--as hell. Anyway, they were in this case, he moodily assured himself. Vita was above all such petty trickery. So contemptible a conclusion was an insult to a pure, brave, beautiful soul. It belonged to the gutter in which, he told himself, he was floundering. There must be another reply to every question which the evidence opened up. What was the other view of it? He leapt back at once to his first inspiration. Treachery--treachery of the enemy. His first prompting had been that Vita had fallen into their hands. How, then, could this be made to fit in with the letter Prince von Hertzwohl had received from his daughter? At the first consideration it seemed that such fitment became impossible. But he attacked it; he attacked it with all the vigor and imagination of a keen, resolute brain, backed by the passionate yearning of his soul. But dark mists of confusion obscured the light he sought--mists of confusion and seeming impossibility through which he must grope and flounder his way. For a long time there seemed no promise. A dozen times hope fell headlong and died the death. But with each rebuff he started afresh at the given point that--Vita was in enemy hands, whose will she was forced to obey. After long hours of defeat his efforts wearied. His power of concentration lessened. He found himself repeating over and over again his formula without advancing one single step. Bodily fatigue was helping to oppress his mental faculties. He was growing sleepy. Again and again he strove to rouse himself. But the net results of his effort was a continuation of the idiotic repetition of his formula. He was not really aware of these things. Mental and bodily weariness had completely supervened. Another few minutes and---- But something galvanized him into complete wakefulness. His weariness fell from him, and he started up in his chair alert--vigorously alert. By some extraordinary subconscious effort he had become aware that his formula had changed. He was no longer repeating it in full--only the latter portion of it: "Whose will she is forced to obey." And as he thought of them now the words rang with a new and powerful significance.